The Great Pretender
by thestormweaver
Summary: Complications in London lead to big changes for Sherlock


He awakens with that disconcerting sensation of not being himself. It presses at him, that feeling of being in another man's skin, another man's life. He blinks and in that instant everything comes back into focus. Of course he's himself, Sherlock Holmes; who else could he be?

He hates sleeping, hates that nebulous state where your sense of self is stripped away and your wandering mind betrays you. He dreams of impossible things, dreams of ridiculous wondrous things that gutter and die in the morning light. If he concentrates, he can almost see them but they slip away before he can remember anything but a fierce sense of frustration. His hands fist in the fabric of the duvet, he awakes alone. Of course, he's alone. Why would he be otherwise? He always wakes alone with the taste of something teasing at his memory. This morning it's cherry or possibly lemon, something so tart and yet so very sweet and it burns through his veins and leaves him feeling bereft.

Rising from his bed, he scrubs his fingers through the unruly mop of curls that plagues his daily existence and stretches. Yawning, he pads his way barefoot to the living area, dropping into his chair as he stares at the wallpaper. No case. He tucks his knees up under his chin, bare toes flexing on the leather. He has been imprisoned in 221B by his brother and his friends for doing the _unforgiveable_. He explained the need but they dismiss his opinions, calling them an excuse but he knows otherwise. He has never needed an excuse. In their displeasure, he is abused, denigrated and finally, sent home without his supper so to speak. So he languishes at Baker Street, confined without the threat of some evil mastermind looming on the horizon to save him from himself. Never for one moment do they consider that it is his boredom that drives him to seek oblivion on a small scale. It eats at him, a prickling itch across his skin like a thousand tiny little teeth devouring his soul. In desperation, his eyes scan the room for the millionth time. Looking for something, anything, that will distract him when he hears the sound of familiar foot falls on the wood of his stairs.

He stages himself carefully, looking posed, relaxed when Mycroft oozes into the room as if summoned by Sherlock's darkest thoughts. He is dressed, as always, like the government functionary he is; suit coat, vest, properly pressed trousers, crisp shirt, and silk tie. "Get dressed, brother mine, we have people to see."

A surge of resentment and fury wells up in Sherlock; he knows where they're going, what they always do. Another day spent in a government clinic playing pincushion where they test him for drugs though where they think the drugs would come from, he has no idea. Any holdout in the flat would have been spent days ago had any remained. Mycroft's minions had been ridiculously thorough, stripping him even of the pleasure of a cigarette or the respite of a nicotine patch.

Rising from the chair, he steps away from his brother, walking stiffly to his room where he will don the costume of the carefree detective and endure another day of humiliations in the hope for a moment of freedom or companionship. He hasn't seen John, Mary or Lestrade in days, hasn't seen Molly in weeks. He dresses mechanically, choosing a simple white linen shirt and coal grey trousers. He prefers tailored clothing, the press of the fabric on his skin helps to distract him from all the information that the world constantly throws at him. He's tempted for a moment to stall but he pushes that temptation away – if he stays here much longer, the flat will become a cell and then he'll surely go mad. He tugs at the material of his shirt, steeling himself as he walks out into the hall. No sense in prolonging the agony.

The ride to the clinic is spent in silence; he knows that he's being irrational in blaming Mycroft but he can't shake his resentment towards his brother at the moment. He can't explain the moments of blinding hatred that threaten to overwhelm him; he fights constantly to suppress the fiery emotions that plague him. Others have accused him of being heartless, a robot, but they have no idea of how wrong they are. He has emotions but he chooses to suppress them, chooses logic over sentiment lest the latter overwhelm him.

He hears Mycroft's voice buzz in his head, _'E__motional_ _qualities are antagonistic to clear reasoning__.' _His jaw clenches involuntarily and he forces himself to relax and enjoy the miniscule amount of freedom that this trip grants him. Mycroft drones on about responsibilities, to himself, to his friends and most of all, to his family, and it takes everything Sherlock has not to squirm.

Arriving at the government-run clinic, Sherlock tugs the collar of his coat tight around him, falling into step with Mycroft's men when it happens. The innocent seeming clinic disappears in a storm of flame. Later, Sherlock will think back to the event and recognize that there was no explosion, no eruption – one minute the building was intact, the next fully engulfed in fire. The sudden wall of heat hits them, intense and thick, picks him off his feet and dashes him to the ground. The world spins as his head strikes the ground. Reeling, his hand sweeps to his head, comes away wet with his blood and he looks at scene around him.

Staring in surprise, he watches a group of Mycroft's security men run for the building while another group approaches them. He sees Mycroft wave them off; as he struggles to stand when a second explosion erupts behind him, one of the government cars reduced to twisted steel. The concussion from the blast sends him flying backwards and he hears a voice that is tantalizingly familiar issue orders as he impacts the pavement.

There's a roaring in his ears; it dominates his senses. Everything sounds distant, distorted. Disoriented, he tries to focus on that achingly familiar voice; he can barely make out the words over the thrumming sound that overwhelms his hearing. He hears a jumble of words "Khan" "directive" "regroup" among them. As he concentrates on that voice, he becomes aware of blood running thick and viscous down his face blurring his vision. In that moment, he realizes that he's injured in ways he hadn't suspected. He feels a firm grip on his elbow; he wipes at his eyes with his free hand and gazes up to see that it's Mycroft.

In that moment, his mind shouts at the sheer incongruity of the situation and the picture that Mycroft presents to him. The government clinic appears to be totally aflame, various cars are twisted ruins, there are people sprawled on the pavements in various degrees of distress – dead, dying, injured. Many like him, concussed, bleeding, clothing dotted with burns from the explosion or cut by flying glass or metal. In that circle of pure chaos, Mycroft Holmes kneels at his brother's side and he is pristine. Impossibly perfect - not a hair out of place, not a mark on his suit, not one single cut, bruise or scorch mark.

For all that Sherlock can tell it could be an eternity or an instant later when the emergency response teams arrive on the scene. Blinking, he notes that the pool of blood is significant around his head and torso which explains to some degree the level of detachment he feels. In memories of prior moments of chaos, unwanted emotions would well up and threaten to overwhelm him. The Fall had exacted a price, a level of physical and emotional detachment in moments of stress that now seemed to be a part of his responses. He feels cool, aloof and far more aware of his surroundings than all his information on shock would lead him to believe. If shock muddles the average individual, it has gifted him with a crystalline state of objectivity.

Shrugging off Mycroft's grip, he rises to his feet. Standing perfectly still, he surveys the damage around him, cataloguing the carnage as he blinks furiously to clear his eyes. There is a blurring sensation in his eyes, as if he were wearing a particularly bad pair of contact lens. The blurring tears at the edges of his vision and for a moment he worries about the state of his eyesight, about the level of head trauma but dismisses it. _Concentrate on the things you can control and learn now. _ He can't place the voice but it's something he's heard a million times and he heeds the advice.

Keeping his tone carefully neutral, he asks, "Known target?"

Mycroft studies for him for a moment and Sherlock knows that his brother is reading his body language the way most people read the Daily Mail. Whatever Mycroft is looking for in him, he doesn't find.

Sherlock runs his hands over the front of his coat lightly, wary of shards of metal or glass but curious to know the extent of his injuries. When he'd first impacted the ground, he had some doubt on the state of his ribs but careful inspection reveals that they're fine if somewhat bruised. "This seems excessive for a minor government health facility; no black book projects tucked away, no clandestine super-soldier projects in the back?"

The look that Mycroft bestows on him is scathing. "Do grow up, Sherlock. No. We're receiving reports of similar attacks elsewhere; three hospitals, five clinics and two fertility labs." One eyebrow arches up towards his rapidly disappearing hairline, "It would seem that there's no rhyme or reason to the attacks." Reaching into his coat pocket, Mycroft extracts a handkerchief and hands it to Sherlock though what he thinks the scrap of fabric will achieve is anyone's guess.

Wiping the worst of the blood from his eyes, Sherlock studies the blazing clinic with its twisted corpses of several cars and he suddenly wants nothing more than to return to 221B where he can wash the grit and the grime from his body. He knows instinctively that he's not going to see the inside of his flat any time soon; Mycroft fully intends to see that Sherlock takes his drug tests and submits to his forced regimen of vitamin shots. As much as he hates the tests, hates the shots, he'll take them gladly if it means he can retreat into the dark. His skull is throbbing; a combination of adrenaline, fear and a healthy dose of head trauma thrown in for good measure. He suspects that he has a concussion at the very least.

Sherlock mops ineffectually at his face, wincing slightly as his fingers touch a tender spot on his chinbone and then trace across a spot of searing agony on his scalp. He watches while Mycroft and his minions group together in a tight huddle and confer for several minutes before returning to where he stands.

"Good news, brother dear. It would appear," Mycroft begins, "that St. Bartholomew's has emerged unscathed. A car will be here shortly; once your tests are complete, you will return to your flat where you can clean up and hopefully burn that appalling outfit."

Somehow in the sea of chaos that surrounds them, Mycroft manages to get them a car to take them to St. Bartholomew's. When Sherlock suggests that there are others who need the ride to a hospital far more than he, the look he receives from Mycroft is withering. The ride to the hospital is spent in silence, which suits him fine; the throbbing in his skull has not abated and the bleeding of his scalp continues though not as steadily as before.

When they arrive at the hospital, it is as chaotic as Sherlock has been dreading. The area in front of the hospital has become a triage for the countless ambulances that pour into the hospital. Mycroft takes in the organised chaos and directs his driver to take them to the commercial receiving area of the hospital where things prove to be much quieter.

Mycroft grips Sherlock's elbow as they navigate through the corridors of the hospital, his face unreadable and his posture rigid. "The morgue, I didn't know you cared," Sherlock drawls as it becomes apparent where they are headed.

"The pathologist seems to be passingly fond of you, brother mine. As you so frequently remind me, she is a competent doctor and right now, she is likely one of the only doctors in the area that is free of critical patients." The pace that Mycroft sets would be punishing even if Sherlock's body weren't sore, particularly fast paced for a brother known to prefer more relaxed pursuits. Pushing through the doors of the morgue, Mycroft studies the room before spotting Molly Hooper. His grip tightens on Sherlock's arm and he drives them towards the diminutive Specialist Registrar. Surprise, horror, fright – each flits across her face as when she notices them and sees the state that Sherlock is in. "Weekly check-up at a clinic and we got caught in the crossfire, it looks worse than it is, Ms. Hooper," Mycroft drones as he thrusts Sherlock at her.

This is the last place Sherlock wants to be. "For pity's sake, Mycroft," he spits out. "I'm clean."

The look that Mycroft gives him is smugly superior, a look that had Sherlock wanting to drive his fist into his brother's face a time or ten. He throttles down the impulse knowing that it will achieve nothing – it will upset Molly, it will extend his imprisonment. Mycroft is barren soil and so he turns his attention to Molly and takes a deep breath. "Might I trouble you for a wet flannel so that I can clean off the worst of this and appease the British Government?"

She studies him for a long moment, before she gestures for him to hop up on one of the autopsy tables, "Your scalp is still bleeding, hop up and let me take a look before you do that. Then your brother can do what he wants," she turns a gimlet gaze on the aforementioned brother, "if that's all right with him?"

Mycroft's smile is slightly oily. "Of course, Ms. Hooper. As long as Sherlock gives his blood sample and takes his vitamin shots, I will leave the rest to your good judgment."

Resigned, Sherlock removes his coat – the shoulders and back have become saturated with blood – it is beyond repair though perhaps a good cleaning might make it useable by one of his homeless network. It's stained too badly for his uses. After a moment of thought, he removes his shirt – no need to add to the pile of rubbish – and settles on the table. His head rests on the cold steel and he closes his eyes to block out the harsh glare from the overhead lights. He hears Molly pace around him, feels the gentle touch of her fingers on his scalp and then her soft voice as she tells him that she needs to rinse his wound clean to get a good look at it. His eyes snap open when the water hits his wound, biting cold as the dead have no need for creature comforts. He hears her hiss as she touches something, then moves away to retrieve a tool.

Molly returns to him and explains that she needs to remove a small piece of metal from his scalp at the same time that the doors to the morgue push open and Lestrade strides into the room with Sally Donovan in tow.

"There you are," Lestrade says as he steps into the room and crosses it to approach Sherlock.

"My brother," Mycroft begins as he steps in front of Lestrade's path, "is regrettably unable to assist you today, Detective Inspector."

Whatever Sherlock intends to say to defuse the tension between Mycroft and Lestrade is interrupted a scent, a taste, that momentarily robs Sherlock of the power of speech. As Molly Hooper leans over the top of his skull, peering down as she works at removing something from his scalp, that taste that has haunted his dreams as of late teases his senses. It's the taste of a cherry tart – rich, fruity with the slightest bite of lemon. His gaze locks on hers as she pulls an inch long shard of metal from his scalp and the pain hazes his vision.

Her face fills his field of vision; he can barely make out her features as his eyes blur and she leans over him. "Sherlock?" She holds the piece of metal for him to see, "I need to stitch you up. Can you hear me?" He blinks twice and does something that she doesn't expect; his hands reach up, one palm reaching out to caress her cheek as the other slips into her hair and pull her face down until it hovers over his own. He needs to know, he doesn't know why but he _needs_ to know what she tastes like, needs to know it more than he needs to breathe. Stretching slightly, he bridges the distance and presses his lips to hers, his tongue coaxing her mouth open and she tastes every bit as good as he dreams. He pulls her closer, the need to savour that taste all-consuming and when she moans, he remembers – remembers days and nights spent wrapped in silken sheets and the tart taste of her on his tongue. It consumed his life once and if he has anything to do with it, it will again.

The answers to so many questions flood into his mind; previously unremarked doors in his mind palace that he has walked past swing open and for a moment, he doesn't know where to look first. Reluctantly, he eases his grip on Molly and settles back on the table as the truth of his life settles on him. His lashes veil his eyes for a moment and when they open again, they settle on Molly and smolder. His hand cups her face carefully, the pad of his thumb tracing the curve of her lower lip as he watches her bemusement with a mixture of satisfaction and desire. The smirk that curves his lips can only be described as wicked as he sits up in one fluid motion. With regret, he releases her and turns his attention to Mycroft and Lestrade.

"Lestrade," he says as Mycroft startles, "I regret that I can't help you at present." He gestures to the blood on his face, the blood that has trickled down his neck and pooled on his shoulders. "Molly has stitches yet to do and I believe that I have a rather spectacular concussion if the driving headache and blurred vision are any indication." Lestrade looks at him, takes in the mess that he's in and concern flickers across his features. He gives the older man a rueful smile. "I'll be fine, Lestrade," he assures the older man. "I'm simply no use to you today. If you tell him this, I'll deny it – you're better off with Anderson today."

The calm if somewhat resigned nature of the detective reassures the Detective Inspector and after a moment, he leaves. With Mycroft's focus on seeing Lestrade and Donovan out of the lab, Sherlock switches his focus back to Molly. She stands beside him, fingertips brushing her lips and her gaze is vacant, internalised. He reaches out, takes her nerveless fingers in his, raises her fingers to his lips and places a kiss on her knuckles. "I owe you an explanation at the very least, there's so much I have to tell you and yet…" he glances over his shoulder to where Mycroft stands waiting, "…there are conversations that must take place first. Molly Hopper, might I have a word alone with my brother?

Her smile is timid, cautious as she bobs and nods, heading for her office. She stops a few feet from the door of her office, a slight frown creasing her forehead. She studies him for a moment, confusion written on her face, "You're not going to dash off, are you?"

She is his sole focus as he chuckles to himself, "I assure you, there is nowhere on this earth I'd rather be at this moment."

She gives him a brief smile, her gaze flicking over to Mycroft before she turns and enters her office. Once the door is closed and she is safely seated inside, he turns a lazy gaze on Mycroft and drawls, "Before you decide to get all bluff and threatening, consider one thing." Taking the arch of Mycroft's eyebrow as an answer, he continues, "I would imagine that it wasn't easy, settling us here, so many details to work out." He stares at his feet, sets them cautiously on the floor and stands aware that his balance is still less than stellar. "I have no wish to forget again, Mycroft."

"Out of the question," Mycroft snaps. "You're far too dangerous." His lip curls in a sneer, "Khan."

The man known to the world as Sherlock Holmes laughs; it's a rich, deep, vibrant laugh, as if he knows the answer to a joke everyone has missed. "Too dangerous, that's hilarious given the reason we're here. I'm far more helpful to you if I leave me as I am."

"Surely you jest…"

"When we made our deal, I told you then that I had only one desire. That desire has not changed and yet it is the one thing you deny me." He steps forward, his arms rigidly at his side. "Here, I'm neither Sherlock nor Khan but strangely a combination of both – something I suspect that your little memory implant program caused." He leans against the autopsy table. "I must admit that I enjoy the work here, it's not what I was intended for but there's a satisfaction in it. And surely you've noticed that these moments where Khan rises up and overtakes your programming are becoming more frequent. Given the excitement earlier in the day, I can't help but wonder who else has escaped your conditioning? Would it not be easier if I was a willing participant in your efforts to maintain us here?"

"And in return for your participation?"

"I wish nothing sinister or complicated and well within your capabilities to grant, nothing more than I asked for when I came here. An arrangement that you agreed to at the time, I might add. A life, a wife – nothing more or less."

Mycroft considered him for a moment. "And you remain 'Sherlock Holmes'."

He closes his eyes, takes a breath and nods as he remembers silken hair spread across his pillow, the scent of citrus and the taste of cherry. "For her, I am Sherlock Holmes."

Mycroft steps away from him, pacing slightly as he considers the proposal. After a moment, he stops, studies the long lean man he calls 'brother' and asks, "You realize that we would still need to monitor you?"

'_Aaah,'_ Sherlock thinks, _'Got you.'_ He smiles, he is prepared to be magnanimous in this instance. "Of course, I would expect that you need to be certain that I'm not plotting to take over the world."

That statement wipes the sneer from Mycroft's face and he nods, gesturing with his chin to the door as he and Anthea prepare to take their leave. "I trust you can find your own way back to Baker Street?"

As they exit the room, Sherlock can't help himself – he says impishly, "Mycroft…" When the other man turns, he continues, "…one small request. Monitor me if you must but keep your cameras out of my bedroom." He smiles to himself when the older man stiffens and leaves the room.

"Gone is he?" he hears her ask from the doorway.

In that moment, he is suddenly aware that he is standing in the morgue shirtless, in trousers that are more rag than not with a considerable amount of blood smeared across his skin. Simply put, he looks a fright. He is a fright; he knows that as he stands there unable to take a step forward. In his mind, Sherlock and Khan are waging a battle of wills for supremacy. One terrified to risk heartache and the other desperate to reclaim that lost piece of self. The touch at his elbow is tentative, fleeting and when he is able to focus, he finds her standing beside him. Wordlessly, she takes him by the arm, guides him to an office chair and proceeds to inspect his scalp while he luxuriates in the feel of her hands in his hair. In that instance, the battle is won or lost and neither part of his psyche is sure which.

"Molly, what if I said I'm not the man you thought I was?" he asks, the sense of déjà vu overwhelming. When she starts to speak, he turns, takes her hands in his and stands in one fluid motion. "What if I told you that you aren't the woman you think you are?"

She smiles up at him, "You've said the first before, as for the second, I'd say you have head trauma."

"Yes," he agrees with a smile as he stares down at her. "Whoever thought I'd be grateful for a little head trauma." His hands cup her face, tilt her chin up slightly and he presses a gentle kiss to her lips. "So much time wasted," he murmurs as he draws her into an embrace. "Let me tell you of a warrior queen named Medb and the man who loved her very much."


End file.
